


People Who Have Managed to Stay Alive

by Tam_Cranver



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU - Librarians, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 21:03:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1793137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tam_Cranver/pseuds/Tam_Cranver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the start of a new school year for Sam Wilson. Though quite a bit is the same--the job, his friends, that jerk Brock Rumlow on the Library Faculty Council--Steve, the new Manuscripts Librarian he meets at his favorite campus bar, brings unexpected changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesprita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesprita/gifts).



> The title comes from a letter from E. B. White to the children of Troy, Michigan, on the occasion of their new library opening: "Books are good company, in sad times and happy times, for books are people---people who have managed to stay alive by hiding between the covers of a book." The entirety of the letter can be found [here](http://www.lettersofnote.com/2011/05/library-is-many-things.html).
> 
> The writing of this story involved a lot of Wikipedia-style research. If you find anything inaccurate or offensive, please don't hesitate to bring it to my attention. I do owe special thanks to my mother, though, who very kindly offered me advice based on her experience as an academic librarian. Any mistakes in that area are obviously my doing.
> 
> The story contains references to character death and fairly serious illness, as well as very brief references to drug use and neo-Nazism. There is also an episode containing sexual harassment. If you find something else that should be mentioned in these notes, again, please feel free to let me know.

Sam had never really considered himself the 'drown your sorrows in booze' type. He liked a good drink, but he'd seen too many guys get dependent on it, making their problems even worse, to keep alcohol in his arsenal of techniques for dealing with stress.

That being said, he didn't think anyone would blame him for getting a drink after the end of the day he'd had, even if it was a Wednesday.

"Oof," said Barnes as Sam settled in at his favorite seat at the bar. "You look like you've had a rough day."

"I look that bad, huh?" Sam tried to put some levity into his voice, but it was hard, after an hour and a half of keeping the peace between angry librarians.

Barnes shrugged. He was wearing the prosthesis that looked like a gripping hook, not the one shaped to look like a flesh-and-blood hand, and the motion made the warm lights of the bar gleam off the dark metal. "Nah, not that bad," he said. "But you're not your usual smiling self. What can I get you?"

It might have been classier to venture off campus, but if pushed, Sam would have to admit that Barnes Brewery was his favorite bar. He liked the atmosphere, old-fashioned but clean, with interesting art on the walls; he liked the small but distinctive food selection; he liked that it was 21 and over after 9:00 PM, which mostly kept undergraduates out even earlier in the day. The owner, the improbably named Bucky Barnes, was a vet--Army, not Air Force, but then, nobody was perfect--besides being a fellow New York City boy who, like Sam, had somehow ended up in Marvel. He wasn't exactly Mr. Sunshine, but he and Sam had always gotten along fine. And, of course, the beer was fantastic. "I don't know, man," he said to Barnes. "Nothing too boozy. Got any recommendations?"

Barnes squinted thoughtfully at him before a minute before opening a tap and then placing a frosty mug of dark beer in front of him. "Try this," he said. "Sadie's Schwarzbier. We're trying it out as kind of a back-to-school special edition."

"Sadie's?"

"My little sister," Barnes explained. "Can't get enough of the stuff. I had to make her a case to take back with her when she visited in July."

Sam took a sip and closed his eyes with pleasure. He had never met Barnes's sister, but she had good taste in beer. Subtle, not super sweet but not bitter, smooth, with a nice aftertaste. "Jesus," he said. "That's really good."

Barnes grinned. "Glad you like it," he said, and he pushed a basket of dark bread across the bar at Sam. "So. Not to be a stereotype, but what's got you so down?"

Sam sighed and took another sip of the beer before saying, "I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to do Library Faculty Council again this year. I thought, now that Rumlow got that promotion, no way is he gonna have time to devote to making everybody's lives on LFC miserable. No way. Guy seemed to hate us all so much last year, why would he do it again? Not like he needs the line item on his resumé." Sam shook his head. "I am such an idiot."

"So you and him are butting heads again?" said Barnes sympathetically. "Bummer."

"That meeting was supposed to last, like, forty-five minutes. It's basically all introductions and recaps from last year! But no, Rumlow's gotta be a dick, and two hours later, here I am." The bread was really good, too, and it went well with the beer. Probably would have tasted even better if Sam wasn't still so pissed off.

"The glamorous lives of librarians, huh?" Barnes was grinning wryly, and Sam eyed him with suspicion.

"Okay, man, what gives? Since when are you so cheerful?"

Barnes smiled like Sam hardly ever saw him smile, a toothy smile that lit up his face. "What do you expect, Wilson?” he said. "Steve--my best friend--moved down here over the weekend. Got a new job at one of the libraries on campus. His first day was today, but we spent the weekend hanging out, getting his apartment set up." He looked down and shook his head, smiling more to himself now, and said, "God, I missed that guy." Looking up at Sam again, he said with unexpected eagerness, "Hey, he's supposed to come by here after he gets off. You guys would probably get along great."

"That's awesome, Barnes," said Sam sincerely. Barnes wasn't effusive about his personal life, even in the support groups at the VA he came to sometimes, but Steve had come up occasionally, and even sight unseen, he'd built up a lot of goodwill with Sam for all the support he'd given Barnes throughout his discharge from the Army, all his surgeries, and the rehab with his prosthetic arm.

"Yeah," said Barnes, still with that private little smile. Just then, the door of the bar opened, and Barnes looked up, his face lighting up again. "Hey, speak of the devil!"

Sam swiveled on his stool to see a tiny little blond guy walk into the brewery. He'd barely cleared the door before Barnes had practically jumped over the bar to envelop him in a bear hug, but though Barnes probably had a foot and a hundred pounds on the guy, he seemed to be holding on to Barnes as tightly as Barnes was holding on to him. It wasn't exactly a quick, back-slapping bro-hug, but after a moment they let go, the little guy looking a bit red in the face, and Barnes said, "Hey, if it isn't Steve Rogers, Manuscript Research and Instruction Librarian! How was your first day?"

The little guy--Steve--shrugged with a crooked smile and said, "Eh. You know, typical first day stuff--filling out forms, meeting coworkers, the usual."

"But you like it?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I think it's gonna be good."

"Good, good." Barnes hooked his flesh-and-blood arm around Steve's neck and dragged him over to the bar. Sam couldn't help a wince, but Steve seemed pretty used to the manhandling, restraining himself to rolling his eyes at his friend. "Hey, Wilson!" said Barnes with a proud grin. "This is Steve Rogers. We've been friends since grade school. Steve, this is Sam Wilson. He's a librarian here, too, so I guess you guys'll have lots of nerd stuff to talk about."

Steve huffed out laugh and held out his hand to shake. "Nice to meet you, Sam," he said. For a little guy, he had a firm grip. Sam remembered Barnes telling him that Steve had been the one getting his ass out of bed during that long, dark patch after losing his arm and getting shipped stateside, and he decided it wasn't all that surprising that the guy had strong hands.

"You, too," said Sam. It would have been true even if Steve weren't Barnes's friend. He was a good-looking guy, with clear blue eyes, a strong jaw, and a really nice mouth. God only knew if he was into dudes, but he sure was pretty, in a twinky white guy kind of way.

"What library do you work at?"

"I'm at the big one," Sam said. "I'm the Undergraduate Experiences Librarian over at the Bradley Library."

"The Undergraduate Experiences Librarian?" asked Steve, sounding genuinely interested. "So do you do, like, the library film series, the research workshops, stuff like that?"

"Yeah," said Sam. He was pretty much always ready to talk about his job--the parts that didn't involve the Library Faculty Council, anyway. "The big thing is working with library instructors to organize sessions for classes--library tours, teaching the comp students how to use the databases, poster design workshops, all that good stuff."

Steve grinned hugely. "That's awesome."

Barnes rolled his eyes. "Well, if you guys are gonna talk shop, I'm gonna go check the inventory downstairs," he said. "Sooner or later I'm gonna get other customers. More _interesting_ customers."

"Ah, bite me," said Steve, giving him the finger. Sam laughed.

"Oh, fuck you, too, buddy. Hey, asshole, before I go, can you drink right now?"

Sam frowned, not really understanding the question, but Steve said, "Yeah. I mean, I shouldn't be chugging them or anything, but one drink isn't gonna kill me."

Barnes squinted at Steve for a long moment before saying, "All right, I'm getting you a celebratory drink. If it interacts with any of your medications and you have a heart attack, I'm telling my mom it's your fault. What do you want?"

The door opened, and a well-dressed older couple swept in. Steve turned to look at them before saying hurriedly to Barnes, "Um, I'll have a snakebite, I guess. Thanks, Bucky."

"Coming right up," said Barnes, who took himself off to greet the couple, leaving Sam with Steve.

"Manuscript Research Librarian, huh?" asked Sam, feeling a vague sense of foreboding. "You at the Phillips?"

"Yeah." Steve hoisted himself onto a stool. "Special Collections. I'm really more of a WWII guy myself, but the collection of Civil War materials at the Phillips is kind of amazing."

"Yeah, it is." Sam pondered for a moment whether to say any more, before deciding that Steve really deserved a warning. "You have much contact with the director?"

"Brock Rumlow?" Steve frowned. "Eh. Not a lot. I'm mostly dealing with the Head of Research and Instructional Services. I met him, though--Brock, I mean. Why do you ask?"

"No reason, I guess," said Sam. "Just. You might want to be careful around him."

Steve tilted his head quizzically, making him look a little birdlike. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I've been on Library Faculty Council with him for a few years, and I've talked with other people who work at the Phillips, and...well, he can be a pretty nice guy when you're talking to him, but I get the feeling that knowing somebody and working with them wouldn't stop him from screwing them over if they got in the way of a policy he wanted to establish, you know?"

"Huh." Steve lapsed into silence, and Sam wasn't sure how to interpret his expression. Finally, he said, "Thanks for the heads-up," and Sam figured it was probably a good time to change the subject.

"So. Barnes told me he helped move you in this weekend. Where are you staying?"

They fell into a more cheerful conversation about Steve's apartment complex (Sam had heard good things, even if the place had super noisy air conditioners), restaurants in the area that were worth checking out (Steve liked the Italian place in the student union, which Sam thought was too oily; he recommended the one over by the alumni center) and the local music scene. ("I don't actually listen to a lot of music with lyrics," Steve had admitted. "Mostly classical and movie soundtracks, since instrumental music doesn't distract me while I'm working. What kind of music does Nina Simone make? I've never heard of her."

"Oh, my God," Sam had said.)

While they talked, the bar was gradually filling up. At some point, Barnes had brought Steve's snakebite, as well as another basket of bread and an admonition to Steve not to drink on an empty stomach. Sam was starting to wonder just what kind of health problems Steve had--they'd never come up in Barnes's earlier mentions of Steve and his general awesomeness--but he figured it was rude to ask. Sam sure as hell didn't want to talk about all of _his_ problems when he was on the town trying to have a good time.

They'd gotten into a discussion about what movies Sam was planning on including in the fall film series at the Bradley when Steve stiffened in his seat, his eyebrows coming together and his mouth pressing into a firm line.

"Jesus, man, I didn't know you had such strong feelings about Chinatown," Sam joked, but Steve wasn't listening.

"Excuse me a minute," he said, hopping down from his stool and walking over to the other end of the bar, behind Sam.

Sam swiveled in his stool to see what was up. It only took a moment to figure out what had bothered Steve so much. Over in the corner, a middle-aged man who looked vaguely like Bill Murray was sitting next to a girl who, by Sam's guess, was probably eighteen or nineteen--probably a student. Bill Murray was way up in the girl's personal space, and while she wasn't saying anything, her expression looked really uncomfortable. Sam felt his own hackles rise, and he stood up.

"Excuse me, miss, do you need any help?" asked Steve, not even sparing Bill Murray a glance.

"Um...." The girl's eyes darted back and forth between Bill Murray and Steve, clearly unwilling to be rude but just as clearly ready to get way the fuck away from Bill Murray. She was sitting on the edge of her stool, as far from him as she could get; her hands were fumbling nervously with her purse.

"Hey," Bill Murray said, glaring at Steve, "how about you mind your own business?"

"What did you order?"

Bill Murray blinked, surprised at the question. "What?"

"What did you order? Your drink?"

"A black-and-tan--why the fuck--?"

Steve reached into his pocket and threw a five on the bar. "There. Your tab's paid. You can go now."

Bill Murray stood up and stepped closer to Steve. He was probably six three or six four, and broad across the shoulders, but Steve didn't seem too intimidated. He didn't even seem to notice. "Now, wait just a second--"

The guy was way up in Steve's personal space now, looming over him with angry expression and threatening body language, which was seriously not cool. Sam moved in closer. "Hey," said Sam, trying to convey both calmness and the sense that Bill Murray had better back the fuck off. "You really want to make a big stink? Is that really where you want to go with this?"

The guy opened his mouth before shooting a quick glance around the room. They'd started to attract attention now from other patrons. Bill Murray closed his mouth again. He looked down and shook his head. "Whatever," he said, pushing past Steve and shoving him into the bar. Sam reached a hand to steady Steve, but Steve had already pushed himself back up.

"And for the record," said Steve to the guy's back, "you ever come back here and hassle women again, you're not gonna like what happens."

Bill Murray showed no signs of even hearing Steve, stalking out the door and vanishing down the street. The rest of the bar patrons went back to their drinks and conversations with a palpable air of relief. Steve, meanwhile, had turned his attention to the girl, who also looked somewhat relieved but also still uncomfortable. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," said the girl. "I mean. It wasn't like he was--I could have--thanks."

"No worries," said Steve, all smiles again. "This is my friend's bar--I wouldn't want it to get a bad reputation for letting creeps in."

Sam asked, "You got a friend with you, or someone you can call?" He didn't want to be patronizing, but the girl did look kind of freaked out, and Sam had to figure that two other strange men might not be the best people to help her deal with this kind of thing.

"My roommate?" said the girl hesitantly. "She was just gonna eat at the dining hall, but...."

"Why don't you give her a call?" Sam suggested. "They do a killer burger here, and the fried pickles are awesome."

Steve turned to face Sam. "Ooh, fried pickles. That sounds really good. Bucky didn't tell me they serve those here."

"Oh, you're missing out, man."

The girl was looking quite a bit more relaxed, and she smiled as she said, "Okay, I'll call her."

"Right on," said Sam, just as Barnes, who had evidently been fetching a keg of pale ale from downstairs during the Bill Murray episode, slid back behind the bar.

"What's going on, guys?" he asked. He gave Steve a narrow-eyed look and said, "You getting into bar fights again? At my place?"

Sam raised his eyebrows at that, but Steve just laughed and said, "Nah, just playing bouncer for you."

"Oh, yeah?" Barnes turned his attention to the girl. "Tell me the truth, kid. Did this idiot get himself into a fist fight?"

She laughed. "Not really." Her nervousness melting away, the girl--Kira--explained to Barnes what had happened, with some help from Steve and Sam. Now that she wasn't so freaked out, it turned out that she was actually pretty outgoing. In the course of the story, they learned that she was a freshman, that she thought she was probably going to major in biology, and that she was determined to 'explore' the town before classes started next week. She'd been happy enough to get into a conversation with Bill Murray--or Al, as he'd actually introduced himself--but when it started getting weird, she wasn't sure what to do. "This seems like a nice place," she explained. "I didn't want to make a scene." She'd been planning on going downstairs to "order another drink" and sneaking out the side exit.

"Hey, fuck that," said Barnes, sliding her another Coke, since she'd finished hers while they were talking. "If I've got that kind of asshole sitting in my place, I want to know about it. Anybody hassles you here, or you see anybody else getting hassled, you come and get me, or one of the other bartenders. Jim and Tim'll put a stop to that kind of shit real fast."

"Jim and Tim?" said Kira with a vaguely incredulous smile.

Barnes rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, the rhyming thing, I know. If it helps, Tim always tells us to call him Dum Dum. God only knows why."

They left Kira with a basket of fried pickles having called her roommate Elizabeth and gotten some chuckles out of Jim and Dum Dum's misadventures at Barnes Brewery. She was clearly in a much better mood, and a cluster of young female grad students had taken her under their wing until Elizabeth got there.

Over at the other end of the bar, Sam turned to Steve and said, "You get into a lot of bar fights, huh?"

Steve scoffed at that. "Bucky exaggerates. It's not like I'm starting brawls or anything. I just don't like to see anyone taken advantage of."

He seemed vaguely defensive, and Sam got that. Barnes seemed pretty protective, and Sam imagined that a guy of Steve's size who took on assholes in bars as casually as he seemed to probably got his ass handed to him a lot. But Sam couldn't really have anything but respect for someone who was that willing to help other people out, so he said, "Nothing wrong with that, man. Me, neither."

Steve smiled at that, looking seriously into Sam's eyes, and Sam couldn't help think that, if their lives were a romantic comedy, this would be the point where they made out.

But it wasn't a romantic comedy, so instead they went back to their conversation about the film series--Steve was really into movies and had a lot of ideas--finished their drinks, and went home. Separately.

As it turned out, he didn't really get a chance to touch base with Steve about the film series, or go out for drinks, or do much of non-work socializing of any kind in the weeks that followed. The beginning of the semester was always hugely busy. Even putting aside the various programs he organized for orientation week, both for undergraduates and for instructors, and the million and one beginning-of-the-year receptions, there was the typical flood of requests for instruction sessions from composition TAs. As usual, they'd been putting it off all summer and were just now realizing that they had to get moving if they wanted a librarian to talk about citation or source evaluation before having their students do the plagiarism prevention exercise the Rhetoric and Composition program required at the beginning of every writing class.

Besides work, Sam still put in his volunteer hours at the VA, and met regularly with a local veterans' advocacy group. He ran into people he knew all the time over at the VA, which was fun--Jim Morita from Barnes Brewery provided transportation for elderly vets sometimes, and Maria Hill from the Provost's Office popped up occasionally for what Sam guessed was some kind of counseling. Even if it hadn't given him the chance for socializing, though, Sam still would have gone every week. The folks in the support group he ran, and the ones in the advocacy group, were quality, quality people, and being around other people who'd lived the way Sam had lived and had lost the way Sam had lost helped him remember parts of himself that sometimes fell between the cracks of his current life teaching kids good research skills and running workshops. It hurt to remember sometimes, but that was better than forgetting.

A few weeks into the semester, though, Sam got an e-mail from a composition TA that made him scratch his head. After a moment of pondering, he shot an e-mail down to Skye at the Media Resource Center.

__

From: samwilson@email.mcu.edu  
To: skye@email.mcu.edu  
Subject: Fwd: Archive instructional request?

Hey, Skye,

One of the Comp 101 instructors sent me this. Can we actually make documentaries in the media lab? Is that actually a thing students can do?

\--Sam

A few minutes later, he got a response:

__

From: skye@email.mcu.edu  
To: samwilson@email.mcu.edu  
Subject: Re: Fwd: Archive instructional request?

Yo, Sam,

No problem! We've got the cameras and video editing software. I'm not saying these kids are gonna be producing a Ken Burns movie or anything, but I can totally hook them up. I'm gonna e-mail your TA about a quick and dirty video editing tutorial, too, but you're in charge of dealing with the guys at Phillips. You-know-who gives me the willies.

Skye

Sam thought about e-mailing Steve, but it seemed weird, kind of impersonal, after their little adventure confronting Bill Murray. Finally, he looked up Steve in the campus directory and called his office phone.

"Hello, Research and Instructional Services," said Steve on the other end of the line, sounding kind of hesitant. Sam couldn't blame him; if the Phillips was anything like the Bradley, they didn't get a lot of land-line phone calls these days.

"Hey, Steve, it's Sam Wilson, from the Bradley Library. We met a few weeks back?"

"Sam!" said Steve, as heartily as if they were old friends. "Sure! What's up?"

"Well." Sam scrolled through the original e-mail from Claire the English TA. "I got a project here I could use your help on." He briefly outlined the assignment she was planning--a brief documentary, made in groups, using historical materials from Special Collections--and what Skye had told him about the Media Lab's capabilities. He finished up by saying, "What do you think?"

Steve was silent on the other end for a moment. "Wow," he said finally. "That sounds really cool, actually. Did she have any particular time periods in mind?"

"I don't think so," said Sam, "but I'll forward you the e-mail, you can ask her yourself. You can do it, then?"

"Sure thing. I can pull some good collections, ones with lots of visual material. We've got some really fantastic letter collections from the Civil War, and some of them even have photos--but if that'd be hard to read, we've also got the papers from this guy who was a labor activist during the Great Depression--and this nurse who worked at an internment camp during WWII, I think we've actually got sound recordings in that one. I could maybe write up a guide to using the archival materials, too. You think that would work?"

Even over the phone, Steve's enthusiasm was infectious. Sam could feel himself grinning, even though he was alone in his office with no one to see it. "Awesome, man. Sounds great. Hey, could you forward me the date when you set up the instruction session? I'm kind of curious to see how it goes. You know, in case someone else wants to do this project with their class, later."

"Of course," said Steve. "Looking forward to it."

So was Sam.

The instruction session was a week and a half later, in the atmospheric main Reading Room over at the Phillips. Even Sam, who was really partial to the Bradley, had to admit that the space was amazing--the towering ceilings and high-set windows with the golden shafts of light that filtered through gave the place the air of some peaceful cathedral dedicated to books. And given the tall bookshelves that lined the walls, full of the library's rare book collection, there were plenty of books to go around.

Claire was a funny, artsy-looking grad student in American Studies who seemed to have a real rapport with her students--impressive, considering they were only a few weeks into the semester. The students themselves seemed like a pretty good bunch, paying attention to Steve's explanations of the materials collections he'd pulled and examining them with interest when he gave them ten minutes to poke around. Not that Sam had expected anything different. Steve talked about the people whose lives were recorded in these papers like he'd known them personally, peppering his explanations of the collections with anecdotes Sam guessed must have come from the papers themselves and with dorky history jokes that even the most jaded of freshmen managed at least a smirk at. A lot of the kids dwarfed him, but as usual, it didn't seem to bother him, even when they crowded into his personal space to peer at the papers he was explaining--Sam got the impression that it was pretty hard to intimidate Steve.

After Claire and the kids filtered out, tucking Steve's carefully prepared introduction to the special collections into their backpacks and chatting with their group members about what they wanted to make their documentaries about, Sam sidled up to where Steve was leaning against a folder-covered table. As he got closer, he could see that Steve's eyes were closed, and that he was leaning on the table pretty heavily, like he was having a hard time standing up straight.

"Hey," he said, suddenly alarmed after the trance of fascination he'd felt listening to Steve talk earlier, "are you okay?"

"Hmm?" Steve looked up, blinking. "Oh, yeah, sure. Just a little tired. You can really sympathize with high school teachers, you know? Being on your feet for a long time and trying to teach at the same time is a lot harder than it looks."

The class period had only been an hour and twenty minutes--enough time to make your feet hurt, sure, but not enough to make you wilt like that unless you were already wiped. "You sure?"

Steve pushed himself up from the table and met Sam's eyes squarely. "Yeah, I'm sure. Hey, you think it went okay?"

Despite his worry Sam found himself grinning. "Okay? Man, it went great, and you know it. How much time did you spend putting that presentation together?"

"Uh." Steve looked down and flushed; he was the transparent kind of white that turned red in the space of a few seconds. "Probably more than I should have."

"I figured," said Sam, shaking his head. "What did you do, memorize all the stuff in those folders?"

"Quite possibly. I sure looked at them enough." He rolled his eyes, then, apparently at himself.

"Well, it paid off," Sam said sincerely. "Good job." He checked his watch--almost 12:30. He was gonna have to hustle to make it over to the lunch buffet at Shwarma Palace on time. "Hey, what are you doing for lunch?"

Steve shrugged. "I don't know--probably going down to the dining hall and buying myself a salad."

Sam wrinkled his nose. The dining hall salads were gross, and plus, the dining hall was undergrad territory. Grad students and staff only went there when they were desperate. "Oh, no, man. I got a better idea. Some friends and I are catching the lunch buffet at the Middle Eastern place on Triskelion Street. You interested?"

"Sure," said Steve, perking up. "Lemme grab my wallet."

The walk over to Shwarma Palace was pleasant on an early September day. The heat of the summer had started to fade, and a few of the trees were shifting from green to yellow or red, but it wasn't cold yet, and the clear blue of the sky always Sam pleasantly nostalgic for the days he'd spent up there with the Parajumpers. On a nice day like this, it was easier not to get caught up in the bad memories, the casualties and the danger and the regrets--with the sun shining like this, it was easier to remember the sheer joy of flying.

The walk wasn't doing Steve any good, though. As they went, his breath got louder and more strained, interspersed with occasional coughs. Sam wasn't a doctor or anything, but it didn't sound good. Concern started to outweigh politeness, and he was about to ask Steve if he was okay when he stopped and said to Sam, "Hold on just a sec, okay?" Sam waited while he dug around in his messenger bag for a battered inhaler, which he took a few puffs from before replacing in the bag.

"Asthma?" asked Sam as they started up again.

Steve nodded. "It's not so bad usually, but what with the new job and moving and everything--plus, the Phillips is pretty dusty."

"Sure," said Sam. Come to think of it, a dusty library probably wasn't the best working environment for a guy with asthma. He guessed Steve could probably handle it, but he wondered if any kinds of accommodations were being made in cleaning or ventilating the place. Hmm. Something to talk about the next time accessibility issues came up in LFC.

They walked in silence for another minute or so, Sam enjoying the sights of Triskelion Street, brought back to vivid life after a slow summer. Then Steve said, "So...your friends. Are they at the Bradley with you?"

Sam shrugged. "Some of them. Natasha's head of circulation, and Jasper's in technical services. But Pepper's Director of Academic Programs over at the Stark Art Museum, and Jane's an astrophysics professor. Gabe runs the foreign language lab over in the Romance Languages department. So, kind of a mixed bag."

"Cool," said Steve with a small grin. "I mean, not that I don't like hanging out with Bucky and Jim and Dum Dum over at the brewery, but, well, Buck's always saying I need to get out more and meet people." He paused, wrinkling his mouth, as if he thought maybe he shouldn't have said all that, and Sam laughed, feeling lighthearted.

"Well, I'm pretty sure we can make that happen," he said. They were only about a block from the restaurant, so he pointed and said, "Hey, there we are."

Shwarma Palace was a good place to go for lunch if you worked at the university, close to campus, reasonably priced, and damn tasty. Plus, they were really good about working with dietary restrictions, which, what with Pepper's food allergies, was a necessity. Sam and his friends couldn't get their schedules lined up enough to eat together on a regular basis, but they still went often enough to be on a small-talk basis with the staff there.

"Sarkis!" greeted Sam as they pushed past the door. A couple of students were in the corner by the door, having an animated conversation about Plato, and some older women were chatting up at the buffet, but the restaurant still seemed quiet--the acoustics of the place were great that way, and the tall booths gave diners some privacy. "What's up, man?"

"Start of the semester, crowds of undergrads, same old, same old," said Sarkis, who was about Sam's age and did most of the actual restaurant management for his dad nowadays. "Long time no see, Sam. If you're looking for your crowd, they're in the back room."

"Cool, thanks." Sam gestured Steve back, into the room where the larger groups (or people Sarkis liked) usually were seated. Gabe, Jasper, and Natasha were already there. They greeted Sam and shot curious looks at Steve as they slid into the booth.

"Guys!" said Sam. "This is Steve Rogers--he just started working over at the Phillips." They went through a quick round of introductions before Gabe and Jasper immediately roped Steve into a conversation about the recently-begun digitization of the Phillips's manuscript collection. Sam couldn't help but smile at how easily Steve invested himself in the conversation. It wasn't even his area of expertise, but he was the kind of guy who could radiate sincere interest, and it wasn't surprising that Gabe and Jasper seemed to take to him. God knew the students in Claire's class, had--and he hadn't exactly made a bad impression on Sam, either.

Meanwhile Natasha, who was sitting between Jasper and Sam, scooted closer and said, low and close to Sam's ear, "Is this the Steve who's best friends with Bucky Barnes over at the brewery?"

If Sam lived to be a hundred, he was never going to understand how it was that Natasha seemed to know everyone and everything. "Uh, yeah. You and Barnes friends?"

Natasha shrugged. "'Friends' might be overstating it, but we know each other. You and Steve hang out?"

"Uh. I mean, we _haven't_ , but he seems like a pretty cool guy. Why?"

"Oh," said Natasha, with one of the unreadable, serene smiles she seemed to keep in reserve just to drive other people up the wall. "No reason."

Pepper arrived at about the same time as their drink orders, bringing the message that Jane had gotten caught up in analyzing data and wouldn't be able to make it to lunch. This wasn't exactly a shock to anyone familiar with Jane's all-encompassing love for unexplained astronomical phenomena, and the gang shrugged it off and resolved to catch up with her later. Pepper and Steve waited around to order lunch while the rest of the gang went up to the buffet. By the time they came back, loaded down with tabbouleh, mujaddara, and baba ghanoush, the two of them were chatting animatedly about, apparently, art. Sam only caught the tail end of what Steve was saying, but what he heard--"You're gonna have to pry me out of that gallery with a crowbar," to which Pepper replied with a laugh--gave Sam another potential addition to his mental "What I know about Steve Rogers" list: "Likes art."

"Hey," said Jasper, "You telling Steve about your boyfriend's art museum?"

Pepper flushed. It wasn't any secret that Tony Stark, who was on the board of trustees of the university and had more money than God, had a major, major thing for Pepper. He'd figured out real quick that she wasn't one for big, romantic gestures, so nowadays he conducted his courtship by talking to her about art, figuring out what art she liked, and buying it for the educational art museum his father had built on campus. Sam didn't know where exactly things stood between Pepper and Tony--Pepper played her cards pretty close to the chest--but she didn't have any complaints about him, and the Stark Museum was rapidly becoming one of the most impressive university collections in the country, so Sam supposed it was all working out for the best.

"I was just talking about some of the exhibits I'm putting together now," she explained. "One of the religious studies survey courses is doing an 'art in religion' theme, so I'm getting out all the altar pieces and Buddhas and Islamic ivory carvings and whatnot."

"Oh my _God_ ," Steve threw in. "They have a Francisco de Zurbarán. They have a Master E.S. They have a _Caravaggio_."

"Having a little art-gasm there?" asked Natasha, raising an eyebrow. Steve smiled hugely at her.

"You bet I am! If I'd have known this campus had that kind of collection, I'd have moved into the museum already!"

Pepper smiled warmly at him. That art collection was her baby, and in Sam's experience, anybody who loved it found a friend with her. "You're always welcome to come look at it. Come on by sometime, I'll give you the tour."

Sam was half-inclined to invite himself along, as well--after all, it had been some time since he'd gotten a chance to walk through the museum, and it really did have an impressive variety of art--but he restrained himself, and instead he asked, "So, Steve, you an art buff?"

"Sure," said Steve with a small shrug. "I did a couple semesters of art school back in the day. It's just a hobby now, but I still like going to museums. I mean, who wouldn't like looking at a collection like that?"

Pepper gave an approving look. “Steve,” she said, “You and I are going to get along just fine.”

Steve got along well with all of Sam’s friends, as it turned out. Sam was glad about it--it wasn't like he was sponsoring Steve into a club or something, but he'd been friends with these people more or less since he'd started working at Marvel Central, and even putting aside the fact that Steve was best friends with Barnes, he was a really likeable guy. It was great that he was hitting it off with Pepper, Gabe, Natasha, and Jasper, even if Sam occasionally wished that he could get a word in edgewise to ask Steve about the art school thing. And even if Natasha kept giving him funny looks.

Eventually, everybody had to head back to work. Sam offered to walk back to the Bradley with Natasha and Jasper, but Natasha said that she had to go over to the art library to talk about some missing books, and Jasper wanted to walk to Fury’s, his favorite independent coffee shop, to get himself enough caffeine to power through the afternoon. The Phillips was on the way to the Bradley, so at long last, he had Steve to himself on the way back from lunch. 

“So,” he said, “how'd you go from art school to rare books, if you don't mind my asking?”

Steve shrugged. “I don't mind,” he said. “Though for the record, some rare books are pretty much works of art in and of themselves. I mean, you know the art scene in New York’s unbelievable, right?”

“Man, I'm from Harlem,” said Sam with a smile. “You don't have to tell me.”

“Well, exactly! So, anyway, I spent absolutely ridiculous amounts of time in MOMA and the Metropolitan Museum when I was a kid, and I always had it in my head growing up that I was going to draw for a living. That's what I spent all my time doing, so why not make a career out of it?”

“Drawing?” asked Sam. “I'd have thought you were more of a painting guy--weren't most of the folks you and Pepper were going on about painters?”

Steve laughed. “Sure,” he said. “She's got some real geniuses in the painting collection at the Stark. But I don't paint much. I'm colorblind, so it's really more about lines and shades for me than color. I work mostly with pencil and charcoal.”

“Okay,” said Sam. “So, you're Steve, colorblind artist extraordinaire. What happens next?”

“Well, I go to art school, obviously.” Steve shot a sideways look at Sam. “You familiar with Schmidt College of the Arts?”

“No.”

“It's in upstate New York. In retrospect, I should have figured out that it was going to be a bad fit way sooner than I did, but they were giving me a full ride, and the place looked really good on paper.”

“Not so good in real life?”

“Not so much. The students were nice enough, I guess, but they were really...” They stopped walking for a bit, so Steve could catch his breath and think of his word. “They were really, really into drugs,” said Steve finally, “and talking about issues they really didn't know anything about. If I took the amount of Ritalin or amphetamines or cocaine that your average kid did there, I'd have died before classes even started.”

Sam could imagine that even recreational drug use was probably complicated when you took as many different kinds of medication as Sam had seen listed on the MedicAlert medallion around Steve’s neck. This school really didn't sound like Steve's kind of scene. It sure as hell wouldn't have been Sam’s. “What about the faculty?”

Steve winced. “Um. Mixed bag, really. If I'd had a different advisor, the professors might have been okay. But my advisor....”

The expression on Steve’s face was more than remembered frustration, it was disgust. “What was the deal with your advisor?

“To start with, he basically was only interested in any of his students insofar as they could help his own reputation. Brilliant artist, but if your style wasn't just like his, he'd chew you out. Also, and I don't like to throw this kind of accusation around lightly, but based on his collection of WWII memorabilia, and some stuff he said...I'm pretty sure he was some kind of neo-Nazi.”

Sam took a moment to process that. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah. And he was the president of the university. Johann Schmidt. So, yeah, I quit after a year.”

“I guess so!” Sam said. “Did you do anything about the Nazi advisor?”

Steve sighed. “Private university, mostly funded by his own fortune, so there wasn't really anyone to report him to, and his funding’s safe, but I still have some friends in the art world, and I asked them to spread the word to anybody thinking about giving Schmidt a show or applying to his school. I hear enrollment’s been down over the last few years, so that's something.”

“Wow.” Sam was speechless. His own college experience had been so radically different he didn't really know how to respond.

“Yeah. Bucky wanted to drag me out after the first semester, but I didn't want to be a quitter.” Steve smiled wryly. “So anyway, I transferred, and majored in Art History. By that point, I'd pretty much come to the conclusion that I was gonna need a job with good health insurance and a steady income, I'd gotten really interested in the illustrations in the rare book collection there, and the librarians were really helpful to me. So I thought, hey, library school, and the rest is history!”

“Do you still draw or anything like that?” asked Sam. Despite his bad experience in art school, Steve was clearly still passionate about art. It would be kind of sad if he'd given it up entirely.

“Sure,” said Steve. “I drew a couple of the pictures on the walls at Barnes Brewery.”

“No joke!” Sam tried to think of which of the pictures at Barnes’s could be by Steve. There were a couple of charcoals, now that he thought about it--a detailed picture of Asgard Hall, which was one of the oldest and most picturesque buildings on campus, and a scene from the bar itself, with a couple of customers laughing and Barnes behind the tap. They were both really good. “I always liked the art there!”

Steve looked down, clearly embarrassed. “Thanks,” he said. And then, “So, that's my story. What’s yours? Bucky says you were in the Air Force?”

Sam felt his levity fading. “Yeah, yeah, 58th Pararescue.”

He paused, waiting to see what Steve would say, but Steve only nodded and looked at him encouragingly, so he went on.

“It was a really fantastic gig, at first. They guys I was serving with were the best guys you could imagine, and it was a job where you could really see concrete benefits of what you were doing. And that's not always the case when you're a soldier, you know?"

Steve nodded again. "Sure. I mean, I was never a soldier, but I get what you're saying."

"Plus. The flying..." Sam shook his head, unable to even find words for the sensation of freedom he'd had then, a kind of giddy joy he'd never felt before or sense. "Unbelievable, man. Nothing like it in the world." Of course, the problem with flying was that, like with everything else, you had to put up with the laws of physics. What went up had to come down sooner or later. "I did two tours, and then, part of the way through the third, my wingman--my partner, guy called Pete Riley--got shot down. I couldn't do anything. Completely useless. Might as well have watched him die on TV.”

“God,” said Steve softly. “I'm so sorry. That's terrible.”

Sam shrugged, uncomfortable with the familiar expressions of sympathy “Yeah. So, my undergrad degree was in social work, and I thought that maybe I'd go back and do that, but...I don't know. I did a lot of therapy, and then I volunteered to help lead a support group at the VA for other vets, and started going to a veterans' advocacy group, and somewhere in there, I realized I needed something else, you know? This is gonna sound weird, but in the middle of all the shit I was going through, the public library was a place I could go and have some quiet. And I figured that that was what I needed, that kind of quiet. So I went to library school.”

“Doesn't sound weird to me,” said Steve. “I think it makes perfect sense. And it's cool you're still helping people--I mean, it's awesome that you're doing stuff at the VA, and you’re helping students at your job. It's great.”

Sam could feel himself warming with pleasure. He didn't think of his job in such romantic terms all that often--sure, there were good days like today, but there were other days filled with unorganized TAs and terrified novice library instructors and piles of paperwork. It was, in the end, a job. But it was nice to hear the sincere admiration in Steve’s voice. “Thanks, man,” he said,

Steve shrugged. “Thanks for inviting me to lunch. It was really fun.” They'd reached the stretch of shrubs that led to the Phillips’s front steps, and they stopped. “Well,” said Steve. “I guess this is my stop.”

“Right,” Sam said. “Thanks for coming along, and let me know how it goes with Claire’s documentaries.”

“Sure, yeah.” Steve nodded, then hesitated. “Maybe, um. Maybe we should exchange numbers? In case your friends wanted to get lunch again and you didn't mind me tagging along?”

“Dude,” said Sam. “Don't even front. I know Pepper gave you her business card with her cell number on it, and Gabe promised to look for that French movie you wanted in the media lab, which, let's get real, he’s never done for me.”

Steve laughed. “Well, I liked them, too.”

They exchanged numbers, and Sam walked off feeling as light as he had in a long time. 

The next week was a mess of staff meetings, and Sam had to cover a lot of instructional sessions himself when some bug going around the library school knocked out half of his student instructors, so he ended up just eating microwave lasagna and sandwiches in his office. It came as a pleasant surprise to him, then, to get a text on Friday from Steve: "Hi, Sam. Hope your week was okay. Mine was long. Would you be interested in getting drinks at the Brewery?"

When Sam was done chuckling at the formality of the message, he texted Steve back to accept, and he swung by the Phillips at 5:30. 

One look at Steve's face made it clear that he really hadn't been joking about it being a long week. He had dark circles under his eyes, and one hand kept convulsively twitching into a fist. "Hey, man," said Sam. "You doing okay?"

Steve shrugged. "Sure. Hey, you remember what you told me about Brock Rumlow a few weeks back?"

"Yeah?" said Sam dubiously.

The fist twitched again. "What's his deal?"

"What's he doing?"

"He's cutting hours for the hourly workers at the library, just about everybody who's not work-study. Budget concerns, he says. But of course there's money for the reception the president wants to hold in the great reading room, a reception which, by the way, is being paid for out of our library budget."

Sam winced. "Shit."

"Yeah!" Steve shook his head, his jaw set angrily. "I mean, I know I'm the new guy here, but we just started a huge digitization project. We need the workers, they need the money, and the money's obviously there. Plus, apparently Rumlow expects us to be meeting the same deadlines with fewer man-hours. And just to add insult to injury, he's acting like all the rest of us are the unreasonable ones. Sharon--that's my boss, Sharon Carter--is doing a good job keeping it together and representing our arguments, but at the last staff meeting she looked like she wanted to fly across the room and hit Rumlow." He scowled. "And if he'd called her _sweetheart_ one more time, _I_ was gonna fly across the room and hit him."

None of this came as a particular surprise to Sam. President Pierce had been doing this for years--taking money from staff, faculty, and students and funneling it into his pet projects--and Rumlow was one of his henchmen, to put it bluntly. "Sounds like you need a drink even more than I do," said Sam.

Steve's fists relaxed, and he gave Sam a tired smile. "More like I need to hang out with people I like for a while," he said.

"That, too."

By the time they Barnes Brewery, Steve had perked up a little. The bar was hopping when Sam and Steve walked in, but Barnes still pulled himself away from the pair of professors at the bar to come over and greet them.

"Hey, fellas. How goes the library business?"

"Lucrative as ever," said Sam, before a large yellow-ish card on one end of the tap caught his eye. "Oh, man, is that that special edition wheat beer you guys brought out last fall?"

Barnes grinned. "Yeah. God, that's why I love having regulars. You're about the sixth person today to ask me about that. You want some?"

"Dude. Yeah, lay a pint of that on me."

"No problem." Barnes turned to Steve. "You want one, too?"

Steve shrugged and made a face. "Eh. Better not, my ulcer's acting up."

"Shit," said Barnes, wincing. "Lemme go get you a sparkling water and some bread. That's still good for settling your stomach, right?"

"Well, sure. But you don't have to--"

“Shut up, Steve,” said Barnes. He disappeared for a moment; when he came back, he was carrying a tray with Sam’s beer, Steve’s sparkling water, and a basket with three or four different kinds of bread in it. This last he set down in front of Steve with a terse command to “Eat, dumbass.”

Steve sighed as Barnes stalked off. “Ah, great. Now he’s in aggravated mother hen mode.”

“Well,” offered Sam tentatively, feeling a little funny that he'd been invited out for drinks by a guy who couldn't drink, “Nice of him to bring out the good bread.”

“I'm not complaining,” said Steve, though he sure didn't sound happy about it. He pulled out a chunk of bread and chewed on it contemplatively--at least, Sam thought he looked contemplative. It was kind of hard to read someone's expression with a big hunk of bread in their mouth.

“How’d you guys become friends, anyway?” asked Sam. Maybe it wasn't tactful, but it might get Steve’s mind off of his ulcer, or Rumlow, or whatever else was on his mind. 

It seemed to work. Steve swallowed and grinned. "Ah, jeez," he said. "I dunno. We lived on the same street. We were always in and out of each other's apartments, and we were usually in the same class at school, so Bucky spent a lot of time over at my place doing homework. He couldn't concentrate at his place, with all the noise his little sisters made, and besides, a lot of times I missed class and he had to share his notes with me."

"It's good to have friends like that," said Sam. "I had a friend in high school, David, who came over every day for, like, three weeks when I got mono in the ninth grade, to bring my homework."

Steve laughed. "Oh, yeah. Been there. You and David still hang out?"

Sam shrugged. He didn't really hang out with any of his friends from high school. He kept up with a few of them on Facebook, but they'd all more or less gone their different ways. "Nah, not really. He's in real estate now, Chicago I think."

"That's cool," said Steve. After a moment, he said, "Wasn't just mono, with me. I swear to God, if any kid in school ever caught a sickness, I got it, too. Once I gave Bucky strep throat and caught it back from him a week later. Chicken pox, pneumonia, bronchitis...the asthma, you already know about, plus I have a wonky valve in my heart and chronic anemia. I'm about fifty percent deaf in one ear, and I had to wear a back brace up until the tenth grade." Sam wasn't sure what his expression looked like, but whatever it was, it must have set off something with Steve, who gave him a rueful smile. "You should see the look on your face right now."

"This is my supportive, listening face," said Sam, and Steve laughed.

"More like your horrified face. Whatever, I'm fine, it is what it is. What I'm saying is, Bucky was the big man on campus, you know? Honor roll, swim team, all the girls liked him. I was the weird sick art kid who kept getting into fights. But Bucky never stopped being there for me. The best friend any guy could ask for." He took a sip of his soda water. "So I guess I have to put up with his fussing every now and then."

"Not like you never helped him out," Sam pointed out. "He told me you were there with him every day after he lost his arm."

Steve waved that off. "Well, jeez, my best buddy gets hurt serving his country, of course I'm gonna be there."

"Trust me, man," said Sam, thinking about some of the stories the folks in his support group told him about the wreckage of some of their friendships and relationships, "it's not that simple. Not everybody sees it like that."

They were silent for a long moment, the noise of the bar filling in the blanks with glasses clinking and doors opening and people laughing. Finally, Sam said, "Man, this talk is way too heavy for a Friday night," and started talking about movies he'd seen lately.

It turned out that Steve was a huge fan of old black-and-white movies--silent films, Cary Grant, the whole kit and caboodle.

"I never got into those myself," said Sam, though it didn't really surprise him that Steve had. It wasn't that Steve struck him as particularly old-fashioned, but...well, he _was_ a history buff.

Steve tilted his head towards Sam, drooping a little around the edges even though he'd stuck to water throughout the evening. "No?"

Sam contemplated for a moment whether to say what he wanted to say, and then decided the hell with it: he'd already downed two beers, and Steve hadn't struck him as a prick so far in their acquaintance. "They're pretty white, aren't they?"

Steve frowned, but not like he was disagreeing, but rather like he was thinking about it. "Fair enough," he said. "The racial politics of Old Hollywood were really messed up."

"Still are," Sam pointed out, and Steve nodded.

"Also true. I don't know, my mom was really into them, so I have a lot of really nostalgic memories of watching, you know, Mr. Deeds Goes to Town or Metropolis with her when I was a kid."

"Sure," said Sam. "You know how many times I watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles when I was a kid? Me neither, 'cause I just about wore that VHS out." 

Steve choked on his drink at that, and Sam pounded gently on his back until he had his breathing back under control. "Well, there you go," said Steve, once he'd cleared his throat a few times. "You always have a soft spot for the movies you loved when you were a kid. Plus, there were some really good actors back then. I mean, there are now, too, but you know what I mean."

"All right, man. Tell you what--you come up with some old-timey movies you think I'd like, and I'll find you some music with actual lyrics." Not that there was anything wrong with classical music, but seriously. Steve's musical ignorance hurt Sam in his soul.

Sam spent an inordinate amount of time over the weekend going through his music library looking for songs he thought Steve would like. He didn't have that much to go on: he knew that Steve liked old-timey stuff, he didn't like assholes, and he had no opinion on rap, R&B, rock, indie, funk, punk, metal, or dubstep. (Actually, he didn't even know what dubstep was, which, fair enough.)

In the middle of the mix tape madness, his sister called. "Hey, Sarah," he said, "what's up?"

"What's up is that my kid's being taught by an idiot," said Sarah, which was the prelude to an eight-minute-long rant about Jody's teacher's refusal to give her more challenging reading, the dumbed-down and frankly inaccurate science curriculum he was foisting on her and her unfortunate second-grade classmates, and his condescending attitude during the parent-teacher conferences. She wound down with a brief account of how she and Jody had spent their Saturday evening watching Cosmos, "so at least she'll learn _some_ science," and ended by asking, "So what are you up to this weekend, party animal?"

"You know me," said Sam, looking at the stack of CDs on his dining room table, "nothing but party. I'm making a mix tape for a guy at the Rare Book Library."

There was a long pause at the end of the phone. "Okay," said Sarah after a moment, drawing the word out. "Elaborate."

Sam gave her a brief summary of who Steve was, and the exchange they had planned. When he was finished, Sarah said, "Sam, there was a time when I thought you were cool. Like, when I was five or six, maybe. I don't know what the hell I was thinking."

"Oh, what, mix tapes aren't cool anymore?"

"Mix tapes were never cool, man, and you're thirty-one years old," she said."This Steve must be really good-looking."

Sam could feel his cheeks warming. His sister had been giving him shit about his love life since he'd agonized over asking Tanisha Taylor to the middle school formal. His attempts at giving her shit in return had never worked, which just wasn't fair. Especially in this case, where there really wasn't anything to hide. Steve was cute, sure, but Sam wasn't looking for a relationship right now, and he didn't have any reason to think Steve was interested. For all he knew, Steve had a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or whatever--plenty of people were doing the long-distance thing these days. "It ain't like that," he said. "The guy's new in town, okay? I'm just trying to be a friend."

"If you say so," she said, her tone making it abundantly clear she wasn't buying it. 

The next week, Jasper, Jane, and Pepper couldn't make it to lunch, but Natasha and Gabe wanted to eat at the Golden Lantern, the Thai restaurant on Helicarrier Street, and since Steve could make it, too, Sam figured it was as good a time as any to trade media. He put together a track list and came home after a Library Faculty Council meeting on Wednesday to print a lyrics booklet, since it occurred to him that with Steve's hearing problems, it might be hard for him to understand the words, which was kind of the whole theme of the mix. 

It was possible he was overthinking this.

Steve didn't seem to see anything amiss, though. "Oh, wow," he said, smiling vaguely incredulously as he leafed through the booklet. "This is amazing--you didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"Oh, no trouble," said Sam, and despite the time he'd taken on it, when he looked at Steve's impressed grin, it really didn't feel like a lie.

"Wow," said Gabe, raising his eyebrows. "A mix CD--that's old school. Can I see?"

"Sure." Steve took one last look at the CD before handing it to Gabe and dragging his satchel out from under the table. "Lemme just--" He dug around in his bag, finally pulling out a CD wallet. "Here you go." He handed it to Sam with a smaller, more tentative smile. "These are some of the more interesting ones I had at home, I thought. Don't feel obliged to watch all of them, or, like, any of them, but...."

Sam opened the wallet and flipped through it. It wasn't full, but there were a good dozen discs in there. "Well," he said, "I've never heard of any of these movies, but I'm game. You mind if I hold on to this for a while?"

"No, no" said Steve, shaking his head emphatically. "Hold onto it as long as you want."

Gabe handed back the CD. "Got some good stuff on there," he said, giving Sam a curious look before turning back to Steve. "So, hey, how'd you like Ne le dis à Personne?" 

"So," said Natasha in low tones while Gabe and Steve talked about the French movies Gabe was getting Steve from the Foreign Language Lab, "I take it you two are dating, then?"

"What?" Sam was startled out of his attempts to follow their discussion of a movie plot. "Me and Steve? No. No way. You know me, Nat, I got the world's most boring love life." At least, he did these days. 

"Nerdiest, yes. Most boring?" Natasha raised one skeptical eyebrow. "I'm seeing some interesting developments."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Don't take this the wrong way, Natasha, but sometimes you're full of shit."

That Friday, Sam watched the first movie in the wallet, a comedy with Gary Cooper and some other folks he didn't recognize. He laughed through it until the end, when he texted Steve.

_Am I hallucinating, or did this movie end with the two guys and the girl in a threesome?_

_Are you watching "Design for Living"?_

_Yeah, just finished it._

_Then yes. :-)_

After a minute, Steve texted again.

_By the way, I'm really enjoying this CD you made! Ella Fitzgerald's voice is incredible, how did I never hear her before?!_

_I dunno, man. You were raised by wolves? You're visiting from another planet?_

_Hardy har har har._

Sam laughed, and settled in for an evening of texting.

On Saturday, Sam decided it was probably time to do all the chores he'd been putting off. He did his grocery shopping, took out his trash, and gave his parents a call. Well, his mom, really, but sometimes his dad picked up and they exchanged a few pleasantries, so there was always a chance they might talk.

This time, though, his mom answered. "Hey, baby," she said, cutting right to the chase, "what's a five-letter word for a pre-Islamic hermit?"

Sam blinked. "Um. I don't know. You doing a crossword puzzle?"

"Kind of," said his mom with a laugh. "There's a 'crossword puzzle clue' category on Jeopardy. Ah! I got it! 'Hanif.'"

Sam had to laugh with her. His mom knew more random shit than just about anybody else he knew. About the only categories he could still help her with when it came to her game shows or word puzzles were contemporary music and some technological or engineering questions. "Did you get it?"

"Yeah. It was a Daily Double, too--the kid who got the question just won $1,200."

"Remind me again why you don't go on that show and take Alex Trebek for all he's worth?"

"One of these days, baby," said his mom. It was a conversation they had a lot, comforting in its familiarity. "One of these days. Lemme pause the TiVo and we can really talk." Sam listened while she messed around with the remote controls--his parents had three or four of them, and they all looked the same, which made changing the channel at their house a pain in the ass. A moment later, she said "All right. Now tell me, how's your week been?"

Sam went through the high points: Rashmi, one of his favorite library students, had gotten her master's project OK'd by her advisor on Wednesday, so they'd taken her out to celebrate; he'd sat down with a group of composition instructors who wanted to do a journalism project for their classes and hooked them up with the right people at the Journalism school; one of the guys in Sam's veterans' advocacy group had finally gotten someone from the Bursar's Office to agree to talk about what the deal was with tuition for student veterans, since they were supposed to be getting the in-state rate, but the ones seeking help from the group seemed to be getting charged a lot more. The meeting with the woman from the Bursar's Office was supposed to be on Tuesday, and though Sam wasn't going to be attending the meeting, he was taking some folks from the group out to lunch beforehand. Finally, he talked about having lunch with his friends, and the movie Steve had recommended.

"This the boy you made the CD for?"

Sam groaned. "You've been talking to Sarah, huh?"

"Unlike some people, your sister calls her parents on a regular basis." Sam felt his spine automatically straightening. His momma was that kind of person--just the implication that she was disappointed with you made you want to commit some great act of goodness until she wasn't anymore. "So," she continued in a lighter tone of voice, "anything going on between you and this Steve?"

"No, Momma," said Sam, keeping a lid on his frustration.

"Well, why not?" He could almost see her frowning over the phone. "You asked him out?"

"No, Momma. First off, we're just friends. I don't even know if he's into guys. Second, I'm not in any big rush to jump into a relationship right now. I got enough going on."

"Sure you do," said his mom in that fake-casual way she had when she was itching to interfere in her kids' lives. "You got stuff going on at the library, you got stuff doing on with the VA, you got stuff going on with that advocacy group of yours. I know that, baby. You do so much for so many people, and I'm proud of you. But there's nothing saying you can't take some time for you, too."

It was funny. This kind of stuff felt a lot different coming from his mom than it did from Steve. "Mom, the VA and the advocacy group are things I do for me. It ain't like I'm doing them 'cause I'm so selfless. I'm not some martyr, and it's not like I don't have a social life. I just told you about the stuff I did with my friends this week. Just because I'm not bringing home a new guy or girl every other week doesn't mean I'm some kind of hermit."

His mom was silent for a long time on the other end. Eventually, she said, "I know that, Sam," and changed the subject to some asshole his dad was having an argument with in the "Letters to the Editor" page of their local newspaper. The conversation didn't last too much longer after that, and Sam hung up the phone feeling vaguely guilty.

All of that faded into the background in the beginning of October. The anniversary of Riley's death was the 5th, and every year it marked a melancholy that Sam wasn't sure would ever go away. It wasn't like he was still blamed himself--he'd talked it over with his therapist a thousand and one times, worked his way through the stages of grief, come to terms with the fact that there was nothing he could have done. But the truth remained: it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Riley and Greta weren't gonna get the chance to grow old together, or that Miranda Riley was gonna have to grow up without a father. It wasn't fair that Riley was never gonna get to try his hand at designing custom motorcycles, which was what he'd wanted to do after he was done with the Air Force. It wasn't fair that he and Sam weren't gonna get to send each other stupid postcards and have cookouts and try out the whole fantasy football thing. It wasn't fair that Sam still had nightmares about watching Riley fall from the sky. None of it was fair.

Kyle Rodriguez, one of the other guys Sam had served with who'd gotten out soon after Riley's death, gave him a call, and they talked for a while about nothing in particular. Rodriguez was a good guy, reliable down to his bones, but he wasn't comfortable talking about his feelings and never had been, so instead they talked about Game of Thrones and Rodriguez's annoying coworkers. The support group at the VA knew the anniversary as well as Sam did, and were ready to dish back all the advice he'd given them over the last few years.

"Let yourself feel what you gotta feel," was what Audrey, who'd lost friends of her own defusing bombs, told him. "It's like you told me, logic and feelings have nothing to do with each other, and bottling it up doesn't help anybody."

The hardest part of the day was calling up Greta to see how she was doing. Sam did a little bit of crying after that particular call, he was man enough to admit it. 

Bucky Barnes, Tim Dugan and Jim Morita were all intimately familiar with this particular kind of grief, so Barnes Brewery was a good place to drink on the 5th. Sam was tucked away in the corner, working on a grilled cheese sandwich and an IPA, when Steve walked in.

"Heya, stranger," said Steve cheerfully. "Long time, no see." It was true, Sam hadn't been feeling up to much socializing this week, and he'd been too busy the previous week for much more than text conversations.

Honestly, he wasn't feeling up to much socializing right now. "Hey, Steve," he said, knowing he didn't sound too enthusiastic but unable to do much about it. He felt like he'd used up all his smiles at work .

Steve paused and gave Sam a searching look. "You doing okay?" he asked. "You look kind of down."

"Bad week," said Sam. There was a pause in the conversation, but Sam didn't offer to elaborate.

"Sorry to hear that," said Steve, nodding slowly. "Well, tell you what. I'm gonna go talk to Bucky now, but if you ever feel like you wanna talk, or anything like that, just come and get me, okay?"

He turned to leave, and Sam abruptly changed his mind. Maybe he'd had enough of the inside of his own head for one day. "Wait," he said. "You think you could...could you maybe just talk, and I could listen for a bit?"

"Sure," said Steve, and he slid into the booth across from Sam. "Anything in particular you want me to talk about?"

Sam shrugged. "Whatever you want," he said. "Just kinda want to hear what's going on with other people right now."

"Okay. Well, first off, thanks again for the mix CD. It was great. I wikipedia'd some of the artists, and wow. That Janelle Monáe?" Steve shook his head. "Amazing. I had to get all her stuff off Amazon, just so I could get the whole robot story in order."

Sam felt himself smile, a real smile. He'd thought Steve would get a kick out of that. He'd said he was a Metropolis fan, after all.

"Anyway," Steve continued. "You know Darcy Lewis? She's one of the hourly workers at the Phillips?" He barely waited for Sam's nod before going ahead. "Well, she's a grad student in political science, and apparently she does a lot of activism on campus. We were talking about Rumlow and his crap, and she invited me to a meeting of this group she's part of. Now, I didn't know this--I guess I probably should have, but as you already know, I don't always do the research I should before jumping into stuff--but the housekeeping staff at this university has been getting the short end of the stick for years. Pay freezes, bad working conditions, harassment from managers and students...plus, to add insult to injury, a lot of them have to work on the weekends when there are football games, but their parking spaces get given away to alumni with box seats or whatever."

He was getting worked up as he went, and Sam couldn't blame him. Staff in all areas of the university were getting the shaft under President Pierce--it was something he and his friends talked about all the time.

"So, Darcy was talking about this group--it's about half housekeeping staff and half grad student workers, a lot of whom, by the way, aren't making enough to push them over the poverty line. They've kind of joined forces and are planning a big demonstration for the spring, and Darcy invited me to go to one of their meetings."

Sam listened for a long time while Steve talked for a while about the meeting, and the people he'd met, and about the crappy benefits package the university was offering its lower-paid employees. When Steve paused for breath, without even really meaning to Sam said, "Riley died seven years ago today."

Steve blinked. Sam watched as the gears switched behind his eyes. "God," he said. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago," Sam said. It wasn't much of a response, but he'd gotten a lot of "I'm sorry"s in the seven years since Riley had died, and by this point he'd given just about every response to it that there was. 

"Hmm," said Steve. That was even less of a response. Sam devoted himself to his grilled cheese for a minute while Steve looked down and fiddled with the wrapper of his straw. Barnes was playing some kind of classic rock station through the bar's loudspeakers, and they listened to John Mellencamp while they sat, the silence between them not super uncomfortable but not the companionable silence they'd managed at their earlier lunches or walks. Finally, as the song switched over to the Kinks, Steve said, "Would it help to talk about him? You could tell me about him, if you wanted. But, I mean, feel free to tell me to shut up if that would just make things worse."

Sam pondered that one. "No, man," he said. "I could...Riley was kind of like you, actually."

"Devastatingly handsome and witty?" asked Steve, his tone carefully light.

"No, super white and dweeby." Steve burst into a startled laugh, and Sam followed suit. It felt good. "Seriously, though," Sam said when the laughter had stopped. "Riley was kind of a beanpole--tall and skinny, you know, and really freckly. He had to practically bathe in sunscreen out there. You wouldn't think he'd be that good at sports, but he was--he was actually a varsity pitcher on his high school baseball team."

"A man after my own heart!" Steve exclaimed. 

"Oh, what, you played baseball in school?" Sam asked dubiously.

"No, but I sure _watched_ a lot of baseball. But whatever, go on."

So Sam did. He talked about Pete's fondness for motorcycles and classic cars, the way he remembered commercial jingles for products that hadn't existed since the nineties, his almost preternatural talent for always knowing when Sam needed someone to cover his six. He talked about the initial culture clash when he and Riley had met in Parajumper training--Sam coming from Harlem, Riley from rural Iowa--but how they'd quickly bonded over their mutual desire for some of the guys in their program to stop complaining all the time and just get through it, and their love of flying. He talked about the ways they kept each others' spirits up during the hard days, when no matter what they did, they couldn't save somebody. He talked until his throat got dry, and Steve ran to get him another beer. He talked until he was exhausted. 

The talk didn't wind down until almost eleven. There was still karaoke happening in the downstairs bar, but the upstairs, where people went to eat, had largely cleared out, and besides a couple nursing wine in a booth opposite Sam and Steve's, the only person left upstairs was Barnes, who was wiping up a spill on the bar. He gave them a sharp look as they walked over.

"Hey, fellas," he said. "Everything all right?"

Steve looked questioningly at Sam, who thought about it for a second before nodding. "Yeah," he said. "We're doing fine." Maybe it was just that he'd gotten more used to listening than to talking recently, maybe there was some subconscious voice riding his back for not being in a better place about Riley's being gone, but whatever it was, it had been a while since he'd shared stories about Riley--the last time was probably two October 5ths ago with his support group. He'd forgotten how good it was to take out some of those old familiar memories and share them with someone who was willing to listen. 

He got a lot of sleep that night, and woke in the morning feeling much better. He got coffee and pastries with Jasper at Fury's in the morning and went over the instructional session schedule for the week with Beth, who kept an impressively-organized and color-coded chart. That night he went home and watched a Paul Robeson movie from Steve's CD wallet, had a nice dinner, and thought about the many reasons to be glad that he'd ended up where he had. 

The next week wasn't so good. Mike and Helen, the two members of the veterans' advocacy group who'd gone to talk to the Bursar's office about tuition, came with bad news.

"The policy's inconsistent," Mike said. "It all depends on when you apply--and if you applied when you were out-of-state, apparently you don't qualify for the in-state rates, even if you're from there originally."

"What?" asked Suzanne, another member of the group. "That's nuts!"

Helen nodded. "Yeah. You can apply for in-state status, but the process takes a while, and you have to have been living full-time in the state for a year. And in the meantime, the GI bill doesn't cover the difference between in-state and out-of-state tuition."

"Jesus," said Sam, shaking his head. The difference between in-state and out-of-state tuition was a matter of over twenty thousand dollars a year. 

"Pretty much." Helen sighed deeply. "Ms. Thomas, the lady we spoke to, was sympathetic, but the regulations make it pretty difficult for them over there. They've been making a lot of progress with students in active service, but there's no set policy for dealing with veterans."

"What do we need to do to get a set policy?" asked Sam.

Mike shrugged. "Petition the state legislature, maybe."

Great.

As if that didn't leave Sam in a sour enough mood, at the Library Faculty Council meeting, Rumlow wouldn't shut up about the library staff "tightening their belts" and "making sacrifices." Like Rumlow was making any sacrifices. It was a public university; Sam knew what Brock Rumlow made, and _he_ sure as hell wasn't tightening his belt.  


He and Steve got drinks that night, and Steve listened to Sam's complaints willingly. It was really gratifying to complain to Steve, because he got just as pissed about both Rumlow and the tuition mess as Sam did.

"That's bullshit," he said when Sam was done. "Isn't that the whole point of the G.I. Bill? You're not supposed to risk your life serving your country and then go home and go a hundred thousand dollars in debt trying to get an education."

"No joke," said Sam, and he took a long swig of his beer. "The Board of Trustees can make a request to the state legislature to change the policies, but who knows if they'll listen, and besides, we've gotta convince the Board of Trustees, first."

"Isn't Pepper's...." Steve waved his hand around in a vague gesture, "you know, her friend, Tony Stark, isn't he on the Board? You think she could talk to him?"

"I mean, I'll ask her. And I hear he's real good friends with an Air Force Colonel, too, for what it's worth. But my general understanding is that the Board think that Tony's an asshole, so I don't know how much he can help."

"Hmm." Steve's ulcer must have been okay tonight, because he had a beer of his own, which he took a sip of while he frowned thoughtfully. "You know what? You ought to come to the MCU-WAB meeting next Tuesday."

"The what now?"

"Sorry--that's Darcy's group, the Marvel Central University Workers' Action Board. They're still working on putting their rally together, and they need all the people they can get. I bet they'd totally be willing to help with the tuition policy. Renata-- kind of the group's de facto leader, she's great, you'd really like her--her son's in the Coast Guard. I'm sure she'd be interested."

"I don't know, man," said Sam dubiously. "It sounds like this group's got enough on its plate, between dealing with the housekeeping staff's issues and the grad students' issues--I don't know how much overlap there'd be with our group. I don't want to make more work for either of us."

"It's worth a try anyway, right?" Steve turned his most earnest look Sam's direction. He was kind of a lightweight, Sam thought; even one beer was enough to make him flush. Or maybe it was just the low lights of the bar, casting shadows over his cheekbones. Sam swallowed, before he realized that Steve was looking at him expectantly.

"Sorry," Sam said. "Kinda loud in here. Could you repeat that?"

"I was just saying that, if we can work together, maybe we can actually make some changes," Steve said. "I mean, I know the groups have different needs, but we've got a lot in common, too, and the greater our numbers, the greater the impact we can have, right?"

Sam forced his mind away from the sight of Steve licking beer from his mouth and onto the issue at hand. This was ridiculous. "Maybe," he said. "I'll come by on Tuesday, and send some e-mails to the folks in my advocacy group, see what they think."

"Awesome," said Steve with a grin, before changing the subject to talk about Claire's students' documentaries, which, according to Steve, were nothing short of amazing. 

They ended up talking for hours again, moving from student projects to movies to their favorite TV shows as kids. Barnes rolled his eyes and occasionally inserted commentary into Steve's side of the conversation, but he was too busy with the bar to hang out.

By the time the bar had gotten quiet again, Dum Dum Dugan had taken over the upstairs dining area and they'd moved on to talking about what they'd wanted to be when they grew up. Sam had wanted to be a zookeeper--he'd been fascinated by the birds of prey at the Bronx Zoo as a kid. 

"This is gonna sound weird to you," said Steve almost hesitantly when Sam had finished, "but I used to want to be in the Army when I grew up. I mean, not even when I was a kid, through most of high school, too." 

Sam could feel his eyebrows rising, almost against his will. There wasn't really a tactful way to say, "There's no way that any branch of the Armed Forces would take you, not in a million years," but, no matter how much courage Steve had, no matter how hard Sam thought he would fight, it was the truth. "Yeah?" he said neutrally.

Steve darted a look at him from the corner of his eyes. "I know what you're thinking," he said. "Bucky's told me a million times. The asthma on its own would be a problem, much less the heart problems and the anemia and this, that, and the other thing. I know all that. But my dad was a vet, and Bucky's dad was a vet, and Bucky was going, and--I wanted to help, you know? I didn't want to give any less than they did."

Sam respected the sentiment, but..."There are other ways you can help, man. The world needs a lot of things besides soldiers."

"Yeah, but the firefighters didn't want me either." Sam didn't know what his face looked like, but it must have been pretty funny, since Steve rolled his eyes and laughed. "Hey, come on, I know that. I mean, I feel good about what I do at the library, and I'm glad I can help with the students, and maybe with the MCU-WAB, too, even if I wish I could do more. I probably would have made a lousy soldier anyway--I'm pretty terrible at taking orders. I don't know." He shrugged. "It was still hard when Bucky went. And when we heard about his arm...." He shook his head. "If I could have jumped on a plane to Afghanistan to be with him right that minute, I would have done it. I hated that I couldn't help him."

_You did help him_ , Sam wanted to say, but he knew what Steve meant. So instead, he said, "Sometimes I think I fucked up my relationship with my father forever by joining the Air Force."

Steve jerked his head around to stare at Sam. "What? Why?"

"My old man's a minister, you know? He was a conscientious objector during Vietnam, but he got sent over as a medic anyway, when they started drafting folks. After he got back, he protested the war, when he wasn't busy doing civil rights protests or going to seminary. He was pissed off when my brother Gideon joined up, but when I did--" Sam shook his head. Some memories faded but never stopped hurting, and the memory of the fight he'd had with his father after enlisting was one of those. "I thought he might have an aneurism or something."

"Wow," said Steve softly, and Sam huffed out a laugh.

"Yeah, wow. He liked that I went into the Pararescue unit, but that didn't make it all better for him. He was just so goddamned betrayed. It's not like he disowned me or anything, we still talk, but...." He blinked and swallowed around the sudden obstruction in his throat. "I don't know, I feel like a little kid saying this, but my dad was always my hero growing up, you know? It's not like I joined up to hurt him--it didn't have anything to do with him, really, but I would've liked to make him proud."

"Well, why did you join up?"

"Same reason you wanted to," said Sam. He knew a lot more about the whole deal now than he had then, but it didn't change the fact that, whatever else he'd done, he'd saved some lives, and that wasn't nothing. "To help people."

"Well." He shrugged. "I don't know your dad, but I know you. And if he's the kind of guy you say he is, then I bet he _is_ proud of you, even if he doesn't know how to say it. And if he isn't, he ought to be." Steve was looking him right in the eyes, so sincere he practically radiated with it.

There was something warm and heavy in Sam's chest. He felt like he was gonna say something embarrassingly sentimental, or maybe hug the stuffing out of Steve, so instead he drained the last of his beer and said, "Thanks, Steve. I appreciate that."

_So_ , thought Sam as he walked over to the parking garage to get his car, _that answers that question._ It was pointless to deny it. He didn't just appreciate Steve aesthetically, or think he was a good guy. This was legitimate crush territory. And it had been for a while now. 

Now the question was, what did he do about it?

For a while, the answer was nothing, as work picked up again, and discussions about the tuition issue got more serious. Life didn't stop for little things like romantic realizations or emotional breakthroughs. Sam did sit in on a MCU-WAB meeting, and Renata impressed him with her understanding of the issue and her ideas about how their groups could potentially help each other out, but it wasn't a done deal. Members of both groups were afraid that joining could distract attention from their own issues, which frustrated Steve, but which Sam could understand. They'd all put too much time and energy into fighting the good fight to waste their momentum negotiating with each other rather than the folks with power.

In the meantime, though Sam hadn't said anything about his crush on Steve, his mom asked about him a lot, and even Gideon mentioned Steve in their semi-regular Skype session.

"Seriously," Sam said to Sarah the next time they talked, "if you've been egging Mom on about this, you need to knock it off."

"No deal," said Sarah firmly. "Maybe now she'll get off my back about my love life." In fairness, Sarah's love life was pretty complicated. As far as Sam could tell, she was dating at least three different people--a dude she met on a Habitat for Humanity project, a woman from her Pilates class, and Jody's father, who was some kind of web designer. He was pretty sure the partners all knew about each other, but it still seemed like an awful lot of effort. 

As much as Sam realized he'd been dragging his feet admitting his feelings, this was still bullshit. He was a grown man, for God's sake, and there were times when even the most loving of siblings and parents needed to butt the hell out. "Okay, Sarah," he said, keeping his voice calm, "I'll make you a deal. I'll talk to Mom about leaving you alone about your stuff, you get her to lay off me. Deal?"

She was silent so long that Sam thought maybe she'd hung up or been disconnected. "Sam," she said at last, her tone more serious, "nobody's trying to give you a hard time."

"You've got a funny way of showing it."

She sighed at him, her breath crackling with static over the line. "It's just--you don't have to tell us about who you date or don't date, it's really none of our business, it's just...."

"It's just what?" asked Sam, feeling impatient. "It's just what, Sarah?"

"I remember when you came out to Mom and Dad, and they were so worried that being bi would make life harder for you. But you never seemed worried to me. You told me, 'Twice as many fish in the sea, sis.' Twice as many fish, and they all seemed to love you. Guys, girls, everybody--and then when you went to college, it took you all of two weeks to find a girlfriend. You were never single for long. You don't know how much I envied that--just how easy it seemed to come to you. But since you've been back...since Riley...."

"A lot's changed since college," Sam said heavily. "You can't expect me to be the same person I was ten years ago. You sure as hell aren't."

"Of course not. I don't expect that, nobody does." Sarah's voice was strained, but it sounded less like frustration and more like repressed emotion. Something twinged in Sam's gut. "But who you are now is _great_ , and I just want you to be happy. If you're happy being single forever, fine, that's great! But if you aren't, why not _try_?"

Sam swallowed his instinctive indignation. Because she was right about one thing--there was a time when Sam had never been alone, when dating had been easy, and falling in and out of love as natural as anything. It wasn't that Sam had never dated since his discharge from the Air Force. He had. But he didn't talk about it like he used to, and he didn't throw himself into it the way he used to, either. Part of it was just that he didn't have the energy he'd had when he was younger, to balance an active social life with all the other things he had going on. But part of it...."I don't know, Sarah," he said. "Sometimes I think I got everything together. And then sometimes it's like I'm waiting for something. Like if I just get this one thing done, or get past this one day, it'll all be good, and I can relax. I used to be really good at being with people, and sometimes I still am, but I think I got really good at being alone, and now I don't really know how not being alone would work. You think being in a relationship is something you forget how to do?"

"I don't know," said Sarah. "But I'm pretty sure that if anybody could figure it out again, it would be you. Do you think you want to?"

Maybe he did. Maybe he just needed a place to start. 

Around Halloween, Sam got an e-mail from Benny Kurtzman, who'd been putting the film calendar together for the Undergraduate Activities Board for the past couple of years. He was graduating this year, and was desperate to go out with a bang. He'd already approached some people in film studies for ideas, according to his e-mail, but Sam had helped him back when he was a sophomore and new to the gig. Apparently, he trusted Sam's judgment, which was flattering. Sam went down to the Media Resource Center to talk it out with Skye, but he already had an idea.

“Hey, Skye,” he asked. “How cornball would it be to suggest a bunch of Frank Capra movies for a theme night because he’s my friend’s favorite director?”

“Unbelievably cornball,” said Skye. “But not as cornball as your friend. Frank Capra, seriously?”

“I'm gonna do it, though,” said Sam. Steve was the kind of guy who appreciated cornball, and so, apparently, was Benny Kurtzman, because he thought the idea of a Capra festival was fantastic. He was even more excited by Sam's hint that he might know an artist interested in designing a flyer. They up a planning meeting for the second week in November, so they could make a real event out of it in January or February. When Sam forwarded Steve Benny's enthusiastic e-mail, Steve e-mailed him back a response message that consisted of nothing but "!!!!!!!!!!!" and his signature. Sam smiled when he read it. 

The week before the planning meeting, though, Steve didn't seem to be doing that well. He had a hacking cough that sounded different from his usual asthma episodes, and he looked like he wasn't sleeping when Sam met him for drinks on Friday. He begged off out of lunch on Tuesday, saying he didn't want to give everybody whatever he had. Sam gave him a call Tuesday night.

“You sure you're up for that meeting, man?” Sam asked. “I can pass along Benny's ideas, and Capra didn't make that many movies--I think we can probably handle it. Maybe you better stay home, eat chicken soup or whatever.”

“I'll be fine,” Steve said. “Not every day I get to whip out the old design skills! This is gonna be great."

Sam showed up at the Union for the meeting with excitement humming under his skin. Steve didn't show at all. Nor did he call or e-mail, and his phone went straight to voicemail. Sam and Benny had the meeting with the Undergraduate Activities Board without him, though they ended it early--Steve was, after all, the Capra expert. Sam told himself not to freak out too much about it. Steve had looked like crap on Monday; he was probably just sleeping off whatever bug he'd caught. 

He did text Steve when he got home, though:

_Hey, Steve, missed you tonight. We can touch base about the festival later, no worries. Hope you're doing okay._

It wasn't exactly surprising that Steve didn't text him back that night. When the next day came and went and Steve still hadn't gotten back to him, though, Sam got worried. Steve had been really excited about the idea of a Frank Capra festival; he wouldn't have missed it unless something was wrong, and he was usually quick about getting back to people. Or at least to Sam. Worry was a reasonable response to the circumstances. Definitely.

He thought about going to Steve’s office to ask after him there, but if Rumlow was there, he didn't want to give him any reason to think Steve was unprofessional. Finally, he thought his best shot was Bucky Barnes.

The bar was quiet, only a few customers at four in the afternoon, but Barnes looked beat. His hair was stringy and greasy, he had dark circles under his eyes, and he wasn't wearing either of his prosthetics, which generally in Sam’s experience meant he was too tired or stressed to bother. Sam felt a feeling of foreboding in his gut.

“Hey, Barnes,” he greeted, trying to sound as natural as possible. 

“Wilson,” said Barnes flatly.

This was a bad idea. Barnes clearly wasn't in the mood to deal with Sam, or with people in general. Still, he'd come all the way over here, and he didn't actually feel like drinking, so he said, “Hey, I was supposed to meet up with Steve two nights ago for the Capra festival planning meeting, but he was a no-show, and he’s not answering his phone. Do you know, is something going on with him?”

Barnes blinked. "Uh," he said in tones of incredulity, like he couldn't believe Sam didn't know this already. "He's in the hospital?"

Sam's stomach dropped. That could mean just about anything, with Steve. "The _hospital_?"

"Yeah," said Barnes, still incredulous. After a moment, something seemed to occur to him. "Did I not put you on the list?"

"The list?"

"Shit, I didn't." He sighed and leaned his elbow on the bar, resting his forehead in his open hand. "Oh, fuck, Steve's gonna kill me. He and I got this mailing list set up--bosses, friends, people he has regular appointments with and stuff--to let them know when he's too sick to work or in the hospital or whatever. I sent out the e-mail this morning, and I thought I'd added you, but I guess I forgot. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night."

Sam inhaled sharply. Okay. Okay. Barnes was clearly exhausted, and obviously whatever Steve had was serious enough to put him in the hospital, but Sam had to think that if Steve's life were actually in danger, Barnes would look a lot worse than he did. "So, Steve...."

"It's pneumonia," said Barnes. "He's feeling like crap, but he should be out in a couple of days.”

“Pneumonia?” Sam said, not sure how he should actually be.

"Like I said, he'll be okay. He'd probably be really happy if you visited him." Barnes paused after this, giving Sam a searching look, and then sighed. "So here's the thing, Wilson," he said. "I have three little sisters, right? Rebecca, Sadie, and Lily."

"Um, okay?" Sam wasn't sure where he was going with this.

"So, three sisters, and Steve, who I've known since we were practically toddlers. And I couldn't love Steve any more if he actually was my brother, you know what I'm saying? So you know I'm saying it with love when I tell you he's a total moron."

That startled Sam into a laugh, and Barnes smiled briefly back.

"I mean, in some things he's the smartest guy I know, but when it comes to his love life, he's hopeless. He doesn't know when someone's flirting with him. He doesn't know when he's flirting with somebody else. He doesn't know how to ask people out, and I can tell you from extensive experience double-dating with him that he doesn't know what to do when he's taking people out. He's gonna kill me for talking behind his back like this, but I'm just telling it how it is. If you like him, Sam, don't play it cool. Tell him in short, easy-to-understand words."

Sam swallowed. It was one thing to have his mom and his sister, or Natasha for that matter, tell him to ask Steve out. Sarah and his mom knew him as well as anyone, and Natasha was some kind of genius at reading people. It was another thing for Bucky Barnes, who Sam would consider a friend but not a close one, to pick up on his crush. "I'm that obvious, huh?"

Barnes rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Wilson, you make him a mix tape, you guys have some kind of standing date having significant conversations in my bar, and then to top it off, you arrange for a film festival of movies made by his favorite director. Plus, you guys stare at each other like you're about to start making out at any moment, and Steve won't fucking shut up about you. Doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to crack this mystery."

"The Undergraduate Activities Board is putting the film series together," Sam protested. "I just suggested a theme."

"Whatever," said Barnes. "You don't like him, don't ask him out, I don't give a shit. But if you're not asking him out because you're waiting for him, you should know that he's not gonna make the first move, like, ever. Regardless of how much he likes you."

That really wasn't what Sam had been waiting for. But still..."So he does? Like me, I mean?"

Barnes dug a receipt out of his pocket and scribbled something on the back of it. "There. That's his room number at the hospital. Go ask him yourself."

Sam had been at the university hospital a few times, to visit coworkers having appendectomies or, once, to bring Pepper to the emergency room when she had an allergic reaction. He had a lot of experience in military hospitals and VA medical centers. He didn't remember if those other times had made him this nervous. Probably they had, but it was difficult to remember past nerves against the big, awkward lump in his stomach now.

He'd been careful to come during visiting hours, which he'd looked up online, but even so, he'd half hoped and half feared that Steve would be asleep. No such luck; a nurse led him to room 616 with a cheerful smile. Clearly Sam wasn't the first visitor; the room was filled with flowers and cards and a stuffed cat--he shot a look at the card to see that it was from Darcy.

Steve himself looked even smaller than usual, washed-out and pale against the hospital sheets. He was hooked up to an oxygen tank and a heart monitor and an IV. None of that stopped him from struggling to sit up when Sam came in.

"Whoa," said Sam, laying a hand on Steve's shoulder--not to push him down, that didn't seem appropriate, even if he probably shouldn't be upright, but just to steady him. Steve settled his shoulders against a pillow and gave Sam the most apologetic expression he had ever seen.

"The Capra festival!" Steve looked downright miserable. "I'm so sorry! I was gonna text, but my chest started getting real bad yesterday afternoon, and when I went to the doctor, they made me take a bunch of tests, and before you know it, I'm here." He gestured around the hospital room with an expression of such disgust, Sam almost laughed, but he restrained himself.

"No worries, man," he said. "How are you feeling?"

Steve wrinkled up his mouth sourly. "Eh," he said. "Not so bad. Ordinarily, what I have would be a pretty mild case of pneumonia, but what with the asthma, and all my heart junk....They think I should be good to check out in three or four days."

"That's great," said Sam sincerely. Three or four days...that was a good amount of time to sit on this "confess his crush" thing, wasn't it? This really wasn't a romantic setting, and if it went badly, it probably wasn't a good idea for Steve to get upset until he was on the mend.

"Oh! Oh--" Steve started to say something, clearly worked up, but before he could get it out, he started coughing, a deep, wet-sounding cough that went on for what seemed like an eternity to Sam.

When the coughing finally ended, Sam asked, "You want me to get you a water or something?"

"You don't have to--" Steve was broken off by another coughing fit, shorter this time. When it ended, he said, more quietly than usual, "That would be great, actually."

Sam ducked into the small bathroom attached to the room and filled a glass in the sink. Steve drank it slowly before saying, "Sorry. What I meant to say was, Darcy visited a little earlier, and she says the grad students and the housekeeping staff are willing to push the in-state tuition for veterans issue if the folks from your group are willing to help with the rally for increased wages and stipends in the spring. If there's anything else the group here can help with--I don't know, increased tutoring support for ROTC and veteran students, or better academic advising, or whatever would be most helpful--they're going to do another push on working conditions issues next fall." He paused to catch his breath, but before Sam could react to this speech, Steve added, "They're having another meeting the Tuesday after next, to get one more meeting before the end of the semester. I should be out of here by then, so I was thinking that maybe next Friday, we could get dinner? And talk about the meeting? If you want to."

Sam blinked. He actually did have some thoughts about possible issues the veterans' advocacy group could work on with the grad students and the housekeeping staff, but at the moment, they were overwhelmed by another idea. "Steve...just to clarify, is this a dinner between friends, or a date?"

Steve's paper-white face turned pink--not up to his usual standards when it came to flushing, but it got his embarrassment across just fine. "Oh--yeah, I mean--It can be completely platonic if you want, I don't want you to think that I'm pressuring you, or like, emotionally manipulating you from the hospital bed or something, if that's even a thing people do--not that I don't want it to be a date-date, but--" He ran out of breath and shut his eyes, shaking his head.

Sam couldn't help but laugh. He laughed so hard his chest hurt, all that tension from earlier released at once. Bucky Barnes might have known Steve Rogers since the two of them were in diapers, but it seemed that Steve still had a surprise or two up his sleeve. “Steve, I've had a crush on you for months, and you ask me out when you're in the hospital for pneumonia?”

“Well, Bucky always said I had lousy timing,” said Steve ruefully. And then, “Wait. Wait, you've had a crush on me for months?” He lit up like a lantern, glowing from the inside, and Sam hadn't wanted to kiss someone so badly in years. 

“Couldn't you tell?” He laughed again, self-deprecating this time. “I have it on good authority that I'm not too subtle.”

Steve couldn't seem to stop himself from smiling. “Well, I thought maybe--but I didn't want to assume. I don't know, I'm not very good at this stuff.”

"You're better than you think," Sam said. "It's working on me, right?

Steve laughed and said, "This is about the best this has ever gone for me. I oughta ask people out from the hospital more often."

“Well, I'm pretty out of practice myself. So here goes nothing: Sure, Steve, when you get out of the hospital, I would be happy to go on a date-date with you.”

“Well, great,” said Steve. “Because you’re a really great guy, and I respect you a lot, and also you’re really good-looking--I mean, I don't want to objectify you, obviously there's a lot more than your looks, I mean, you're generous, and brave, and--” He was losing his breath again, and Sam put a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, man,” he said, “You don't have to butter me up, I already said yes. I'm a sure thing.” Even more sure than ever, now. Yeah, Steve wasn't exactly smooth, but he was a quality, quality human being. And Sam was done waiting for everything in his life to be perfect. This was good enough. He leaned in and said, more quietly, “For the record, Steve, I'm not being generous or anything when I say that you're pretty fantastic yourself.”

Steve flushed again, almost up to his full-power fire-engine red. “I really wish I could kiss you right now.”

“Ditto,” said Sam, and he reached to take Steve's hand. “But hey, the lights are low, we got dinner--well,” he said, gesturing to Steve's half-eaten bowl of hospital soup--”You got dinner, we’re holding hands. That’s kind of romantic, right?”

Steve nodded, squeezing Sam’s hand. “Yeah. Romantic enough for me, anyway.”

As far as dates went, Sam had had worse. Steve liked him, he liked Steve, and pretty soon the semester was going to end and they'd have some time to themselves. As far as Sam was concerned, it was a pretty good place to start.


	2. Songs with Lyrics (Sam's Mix CD for Steve)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay in posting this--it's been a busy couple of weeks--and for my lack of skill in making mix covers. (Someday I'll learn how to use something more complicated than MS Paint...but not today.)
> 
> This is meant to be the mix that Sam gives Steve in the story. Some of the lyrics contain references to, among other things, drug use, domestic violence, and what might be generally termed "adult themes." If there is anything else that you feel should be mentioned in these notes, please don't hesitate to let me know.

[Stream at 8tracks](http://8tracks.com/corpruga/songs-with-lyrics)

Track list:

**1\. Nina Simone - In the Morning**  
In the daytime I will meet you as before.  
You will find me waiting by the ocean floor,  
Building castles in the shifting sands  
In a world that no one understands

**********2\. Jill Scott - A Long Walk**  
Your background, it ain't squeaky clean (shit)  
Sometimes we all got to swim upstream  
You ain't no saint, we all are sinners  
But you put your good foot down and make your soul a winner

**********3\. Billie Holiday - Crazy He Calls Me**  
Like the wind that shakes the bough  
He moves me with a smile  
The difficult I'll do right now  
The impossible will take a little while

**********4\. The Temptations - The Way You Do The Things You Do**  
As pretty as you are  
You know you could've been a flower  
If good looks was a minute  
You know that you could be an hour

**********5\. Gil Scott-Heron - When You Are Who You Are**  
You always go out of your way to impress me  
Don't you know by now, ain't no need to impress me  
I'm impressed every time you smile  
When I feel like you mean to smile

**********6\. Janelle Monáe - We Were Rock & Roll**  
The way we used to dance  
The way you clapped your hands  
And I remember the smell of guns  
War lived in me but love finally won

**********7\. Marvin Gaye - Cloud Nine**  
On cloud nine, you're as free as a bird in flight  
There's no difference between day and night  
It's a world of love and harmony  
You're a million miles from reality

**********8\. Death - You're A Prisoner**  
You can't get by if you don't try  
To change things within yourself  
Until then, my broken friend,  
You will remain on a shelf

**********9\. P.O.S. - Been Afraid**  
And boy similar/ noise minimal/  
Toy criminal, joy's simple when someone's found it in you/  
Somehow it boosts the individual/ that bluish hue is mutual, they/  
Make love gently/ so aware of each other's bruises 

**********10\. Amos Lee - Sympathize**  
Heaven is calling  
The new world is falling  
And she ain't got a single person left to confide  
No one to confide

**********11\. Corinne Bailey Rae - Low Red Moon**  
I look up, and I see  
The raising of an old hope,  
Brave and tattered.  
A shining knight with shining eyes,  
He shines around me brightly

**********12\. Ella Fitzgerald - Midnight Sun**  
The flame of it may dwindle to an ember, and the stars forget to shine,  
And we may see the meadow in December, icy white and crystalline.  
But oh my darling always I'll remember when your lips were close to mine,  
And we saw the midnight sun.

**********13\. Sarah Vaughan - A Hundred Years From Today**  
Why crave a penthouse that's fit for a queen  
You're nearer heaven on Mother Earth's green  
If you had millions what would they all mean  
A hundred years from today  
So laugh and sing, make love the thing  
Be happy while you may

**********14\. Angel Haze - Battle Cry**  
I'm born to destroy the fallacies, stop creating believers  
Start creating the leaders, tell 'em who they should follow  
Nobody but themselves, especially if they hollow  
Especially when they empty and death reserves for fulfillment  
You the only person alive who holds the key to your healin'

**********15\. Nicki Minaj - Fly**  
Me against enemies, me against friends  
Somehow they both seem to become one  
A sea full of sharks and they all smell blood  
They start coming and I start rising  
Must be surprising, I'm just surmising  
I win, thrive, soar, higher, higher, higher, more fire

**********16\. Johnny Mathis - Didn't We**  
This time we almost made the pieces fit, didn't we?  
This time we almost made some sense of it, didn't we?  
This time I had the answer, right here in my hand  
Then I touched it and it had turned to sand

**********17\. Kid Cudi - Pursuit of Happiness (nightmare)**  
People told me slow my roll,  
I'm screaming out "fuck that,"  
Imma do just what I want,  
Looking ahead no turning back,  
If I fall, if I die,  
Know I lived it to the fullest

**********18\. Frank Ocean - Sierra Leone**  
Shit feelin' too good to me, glistening,  
Shimmerin' underneath the sunlight, the sunlight  
And a new day will bring about the dawn  
And a new day will bring another cryin' babe into the world

**********19\. Grace Jones - Sunset Sunrise**  
We share the moon, we share the stars  
When the rain falls, it falls on all  
In the right place at the right time  
You can see a rainbow being defined

******************20\. Laura Mvula - Sing to the Moon**  
Hey there you, shattered in a thousand pieces  
Weeping in the darkest nights  
Hey there you, trying to stand up on your own two feet  
And stumbling through the sky

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't work out every movie that Steve recommends to Sam, but I did have [Design for Living](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0023940/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1) (1933) and [Borderline](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0020701/?ref_=nm_flmg_act_11) (1930) in mind, both of which are worth checking out, in my opinion. The mix that Sam makes for Steve is now posted as Chapter 2.


End file.
